


and when i’m a little unsteady (the there you are remix)

by FaiaSakura



Series: Foxhole Ficlets [4]
Category: All For The Game - Nora Sakavic
Genre: Andrew has a bad day, Angst and Fluff, M/M, Mental Health Issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-27
Updated: 2019-10-27
Packaged: 2021-01-03 13:56:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,601
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21180569
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FaiaSakura/pseuds/FaiaSakura
Summary: Somehow, Neil manages to see past his walls and barriers—not all the time, but more than anyone has ever before, and he always waits for Andrew to invite him in, instead of barging right on through.Andrew is having a bad week, but somehow Neil helps.





	and when i’m a little unsteady (the there you are remix)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [puddingcatbeans](https://archiveofourown.org/users/puddingcatbeans/gifts).
  * Inspired by [and when i'm a little unsteady (stay a while with me)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17594804) by [puddingcatbeans](https://archiveofourown.org/users/puddingcatbeans/pseuds/puddingcatbeans). 

> This was such a fun event, thank you remix mods! earlgrey_milktea, I hope you enjoy this. I've taken a reverse/mirror spin on your original fic. Shouout to poetic_ivy, leahelisabeth, and rarefiednight for betaing!

For a moment after Andrew wakes up, he thinks it might be over. 

He blinks in the darkness and relishes the few moments of clarity he gets before the distress settles into his chest again.

Fives days, he’s been like this, and he’s really fucking sick of it. 

One moment, he was fine, amused at the antics his teammates were getting up to. Then suddenly, panic hit him—not like a freight-train, with a sudden impact that was over just as fast: but like hitting a surface of water and sinking down, down, down. 

The most annoying part of it all—outside of not being able to feel anything other than terror—is that he doesn’t know what triggered it, and none of his usual coping methods are working.

Five days, he’s been standing precipitously on the edge of a panic attack, never tipping over, but never coming down either. 

Hypervigilance is his new best friend. 

His heartbeat isn’t out-of-control fast, but neither has it gone below 100 bpm in the last few days. He can feel each strong drum beat hammer away, not in the left side of his chest where it belongs, but in his upper sternum, like his heart is trying to crowd out his lungs. 

Nothing obstructs his breathing, which remains steady and even, but he can’t shake the feeling that any moment now, something will. 

There’s a short list of emotions Andrew regularly feels, but it’s usually longer than just one. 

The digital clock that lays across the room blinks red numbers, flickering from 3:22 to 3:23. 

Neil sleeps soundly on his side of the bed. All touch has been too much touch these past few days. 

Normally, the strips of moonlight that sneak past their bedroom blinds to cast a glow on the parts of Neil’s leg exposed by the blankets would be enticing. Andrew would usually feel a temptation to run his hand along smooth skin and curved muscle and faded scars, all familiar after the years they’ve spent together. 

But right now, he feels nothing—nothing but an irrational sense of doom. 

Alcohol takes the edge off, and since he’s not going back to sleep anytime soon, why the hell not? 

He slips out of the covers, careful not to disturb Neil or the cats sleeping at the foot of the bed. 

A half-cup of milk goes into the microwave as Andrew rummages around the pantry for all the necessary ingredients.

Heaping spoonfuls of cocoa powder and sugar get mixed into the milk. Once it’s smooth, he adds in eyeballed shots of Kahlua, Bailey’s Irish cream, and amaretto. Maybe the pseudo screaming orgasm hot cocoa will dull the background screaming in his mind. 

Andrew curls up on the couch and takes a sip.

The sweetness, which should spark joy as it dances across his taste buds, does not improve his mood. The warmth of the hot liquid and alcohol slides past the panic lodged high in his chest to heat up his center but does nothing to improve his condition.

He takes another sip. 

And
    
    
    another 
    
    
      
    
    
    sip.
    
    
      
    
    
        
    
    
    And
    
    
    an—

—other. 

Sip.
    
    
    Sip.
    
    
      
    
    
    Sip.

Slowly, he manages to finish the drink. 

Andrew is no longer teetering at the brink of panic, but he is still drowning. 

Drowning in sadness. 

It’s not the alcohol, because he’s drunk himself silly the last two nights without any change in mood. 

But just like the blinking numbers of his clock, one moment his chest was crowded by distress, the next his brain decided it was time to be sad. 

It’s an opposite sensation—now his chest feels hollowed out, empty, a vacancy permeated by a different kind of upset. 

There’s nothing to be sad about, but Andrew inexplicably is. 

When he wanted to feel something other than panic, this wasn’t what he meant. 

He zones out, drowning in his temporary bout of depression until Neil interrupts his fake zen.

“How long have you been out here?” Neil asks, watching from the hallway.

Andrew blinks at him slowly.

3:23 flashes red in his mind.

He clears his throat before answering, “Since three.” 

Neil is dressed in shorts and a t-shirt, ready for his morning run. There’s sunlight peeking in through the living room curtains, a glowing orange much more delicate than Palmetto Fox orange ever was. Neil frowns and heads back to their bedroom. 

As quickly as he disappeared, Neil is back with a fluffy blanket and an even fluffier King. 

He lets King hop out of his arms onto the far end of the couch and checks in with Andrew before ensconcing him in weighted fluff. 

Andrew stares back at him. When Neil doesn’t move, he tells him, “Get going.” 

Neil, always worrying about others, even at the cost of his own well-being, remains still, studying Andrew for a few moments longer.

Normally the staring would be equal parts annoying and endearing, not that Andrew would ever admit the endearing part out loud. Somehow, Neil manages to see past his walls and barriers—not all the time, but more than anyone ever has before, and he always waits for Andrew to invite him in, instead of barging right on through. 

Finally, he nods and tells Andrew he’ll be back soon. 

Andrew must doze off sometime before that, because he’s waking up again, this time with no false hope that his brain has started to cooperate again.

The sad is still there.

It’s an odd sensation, a study in duality. There’s a pressure in his eyes like his tear ducts are preparing for him to cry, even though he doesn’t feel nearly enough intense and immediate duress. The hollowness in his chest feels like the emptiness of having cried, even though he hasn’t. It’s like floating in some freakish temporal limbo on the timeline of crying. Schrodinger’s crying. 

He tries looking for any other emotion to feel, but there’s none to be found. 

That’s fine.

This was annoying, but at least he feels like he can breathe better now—not that his breathing had been legitimately hampered when he was trapped in his state of terror. 

His empty mug is on the coffee table, next to his cell phone, which wasn’t there before. There’s a text from Neil that reads _call Renee_.

King is dozing on his lap and Sir has somehow wedged himself between Andrew’s hip and the couch.

He’s not sure where Neil is—the bright sunlight streaming in means Neil is probably done with his morning run but Andrew can’t hear him moving around their apartment. 

Lacking better options, Andrew follows the instructions and calls Renee. 

The phone rings once, twice, three times, before Renee picks up. “Good morning, Andrew. It’s rare for you to call without notice. Have you finally read the article I sent you?” 

Renee, with her bubbly bright personality that covered up a past of darkness, could always sense when Andrew was entrenched in it. She acknowledged the change in their routine as an indication she knew his mind was in a bad place and brought them to familiar territory.

A few days ago, she texted him a link to a new article on the fifty states and DC ranked by zombie apocalypse survivability. He had read through it but couldn’t find the energy to respond at the time. 

He goes through the ranking now and picks out the weaknesses in the article, the overgeneralization of states that had varied terrain and how the writer had surface-level understanding of each state—had probably googled the geographic features as they were writing. 

Renee laughs and rebuffs some of his more pointed critiques, while also bringing up the poignant parts the writer got correct. 

They debate over how good Arkansas, of all states, is for long enough that she finds herself needing to rush to an appointment before they can finish.

After hearing her hurried goodbye with a promise to continue their discussion, Andrew hangs up, feeling lighter—floating for a few moments above the sad, before sinking back in.

He doesn’t fall as deep this time, he thinks. It feels less oppressive than a few hours ago. 

Neil reappears with a bowl of ice cream. 

Without Andrew ever having indicated his change in mood, Neil has brought the exact flavor Andrew is craving—Haagen-Dazs Cherry Vanilla.

Andrew has different ice cream flavors for different moods: Haagen-Dazs Irish Cream Brownie for celebration, the Cherry Vanilla for sad, Ben & Jerry’s Half Baked for boredom, and Peekaboo Cotton Candy for when Kevin asks if he’s eating vegetables. Of course, he also buys whatever catches his eye when he’s in the store. 

The Cherry Vanilla is the least often eaten in all of his ice cream stash, but Neil must have picked away the freezer burnt parts because every bite Andrew takes is smooth and creamy. 

Bit by bit, bite by bite, the sadness fades into something manageable. 

It’s not the ice cream—well, not entirely. 

It’s the unconditional support provided by family and friends and lover alike, when Andrew never thought he could have any of that, let alone all three. 

It’s how the good days outnumber the bad.

It’s how he and Neil have grown beyond strictly verbal cues but today Neil asks “yes or no” before joining Andrew on the couch. 

Andrew tangles their legs together and breathes.

There’s a weight on his chest, but it’s only King Fluffkins, making herself at home on top of Andrew and the blanket still covering him.

She blinks slowly. He blinks back at her, then at Neil. 

Neil blinks too—and Andrew feels settled. 

**Author's Note:**

> Let me know your thoughts! Or what your favorite ice cream flavor is. Fun fact: the Peekaboo ice cream is a vegetable-based ice cream (so therefore it's healthy, right?).


End file.
